Chapter 5 The Monster Within.

Three days.

Three long, sleepless nights since Lyra had seen him - the stranger with the storm in his eyes and the quiet fury beneath his skin. His voice haunted her, low and commanding, echoing in the corners of her mind no matter how she tried to push it away. His face, half-shadowed beneath the hood, appeared behind her lids every time she blinked.

And his scent - pine and smoke - still clung to her memory, as if the very forest had whispered him into existence.

Kael.

The name tasted dangerous and forbidden on her tongue.

But dreams of him couldn't shield her from reality. If anything, they made it harder. Because every dawn brought her back to this place - the small, crumbling house at the edge of the woods, where kindness was a forgotten language and survival meant keeping her head down.

Lyra kept her hands busy: hauling water, chopping wood, scrubbing floors until her fingers bled. Maybe if she worked hard enough, maybe if she was perfect, her uncle would look at her differently. Maybe the blow wouldn't fall tonight.

But that hope had long since worn thin.

---

Her uncle's boots thudded heavily against the wooden porch, the familiar sound that made her stomach twist in knots. The door banged open, slamming against the wall with a force that made her flinch.

"Lyra!" His voice was slurred, thick with drink. The sour stench of ale rolled into the room with him.

She didn't turn from the hearth where she stirred the thin broth, heart racing. Don't answer. Don't anger him.

But he was already there, looming behind her.

"Dinner's not done yet? What the hell have you been doing all evening, you lazy brat?"

"I-I was just about-"

Her words were cut off by the back of his hand, striking her cheek so hard she stumbled, nearly knocking over the pot.

The burn on her skin flared hot, but she didn't cry out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Useless. Just like your mother." He spat at her feet. "Bringing shame on this house, same as she did. I should've thrown you out with the trash she left behind."

Lyra's fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Don't. Don't fight back.

But he wasn't done.

A heavy fist collided with her cheek, sending her sprawling onto the hard dirt floor. Pain blossomed across her face, sharp and sudden. The room tilted, the dim firelight flickering in and out of focus.

"You useless wretch! You think you're better than me? Think you can look at me with those cursed eyes of yours?"

Another blow. Then a kick to her ribs. Lyra coughed, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. The world blurred; tears streamed down her face as she curled inward, trying to protect herself.

"Stop-please-" her voice broke, barely audible over his drunken rage.

But he didn't stop. Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else - his curses, the crackle of the fire, the thud of his boots against the floorboards.

"Think you can stand there with those cursed eyes and act better than me? You think you're special? A freak like you?" His breath was hot and rancid against her face as he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back.

She gasped, the pain sharp at her scalp. His other hand lifted - she braced for the next hit, but this time something in her snapped.

No more.

It wasn't a thought. It was a force, a pulse that started deep in her chest and spread like wildfire through her veins.

Her vision blurred - no, not blurred - sharpened. The world became too clear, too loud. She heard the frantic beating of his heart, the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, the crackle of the fire.

And when she looked up at him, his drunken anger faltered.

Her eyes glowed. A soft, silver light that shimmered in the dim room.

"W-what..." he breathed, the color draining from his face.

Lyra didn't think. She shoved him.

What should've been a weak push sent him flying as if he weighed nothing at all. He crashed into the table, the wood splintering under the force, ale spilling across the floor in a dark pool. He groaned, stunned, staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Lyra stared at her hands, shaking, her breath coming fast and shallow.

"What-what did I just-"

"You... you thing." Her uncle's voice was thick with horror now. He scrambled backward, hands searching blindly until they closed around the handle of the kitchen knife. His fingers gripped it so tight his knuckles turned white.

"You vermin. You monster. I should've drowned you as a babe like I was told! No niece of mine - no human girl - can do what you just did!"

He lunged.

The blade flashed in the firelight as he slashed at her. Lyra cried out, stumbling back. The knife grazed her arm, the sting of the cut sharp and immediate.

"Uncle, stop! Please! I don't know what's happening!"

But he was beyond reason, eyes wild with terror and hatred.

Driven by instinct, by sheer terror, Lyra turned and ran.

---

The door slammed behind her, the night swallowing her whole. The cold hit her lungs like ice, but she didn't stop. She tore through the yard, into the woods beyond, branches whipping her face and arms, roots snagging at her feet.

Her heart pounded, louder than the wind in the trees, louder than the blood rushing in her ears.

Run. That voice again, deep inside her. Run. Before it's too late.

The forest was a blur - shadows and moonlight, the soft hoot of an owl, the rustle of unseen creatures watching from the dark. But Lyra saw none of it. She only felt the terror clawing at her chest, the shame burning hot under her skin.

Her uncle's words echoed with every step.

Monster. Vermin. Abomination.

Was that what she was?

A sob tore from her throat, raw and broken. She didn't stop until her legs gave out beneath her. She collapsed by a narrow stream, hands scraping against the rocks as she fell. The icy water lapped at her fingers, as if trying to soothe the pain.

Lyra curled into herself, trembling.

Blood trickled from the cut on her arm, from the scrape on her cheek, mingling with the tears that wouldn't stop.

The silver glow in her eyes had faded, but the memory of it - the way her uncle had looked at her, as if she were some demon come to destroy him - that remained.

What am I?

The question hung heavy in the cold night air, unanswered.